


I Hear the Voices When I’m Dreaming

by Enochian Things (Salr323)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Episode: s07e17 The Born-Again Identity, Language, M/M, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salr323/pseuds/Enochian%20Things
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because he doesn’t give a rat’s ass any more, it’s easy for Dean to admit to himself that it’s all about Cas.</p><p>Cas, who had raised him from Hell. Cas, who was always so honest, so open, so earnest and true. Cas, who he’d loved. And, yeah, he’s chilled enough that ‘love’ is a word he uses now. Because why the hell not? He’d loved that nerdy freakin’ angel, loved him like a brother, like a comrade, like a ... whatever. And he’d trusted him with his life – more importantly, he’d trusted him with <i>Sam’s</i> life. He’d put his faith in him and the bastard— The treacherous bastard had—   </p><p>Damn, but he’s hungry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hear the Voices When I’m Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly canon-divergent.

Dean dreams of darkness.

He dreams of Sam in thrall to Lucifer. He dreams of Amy sliding off his blade, of her son’s grief and – with bleak anticipation – of the day when the kid slips the knife between Dean’s ribs and ends it all. 

But it’s worse when he dreams of Castiel. 

If he’s lucky, he dreams of the end – of Leviathan and black goo and the water closing over his head. But other times he dreams of Cas trapped inside a circle of fire, trapped by lies and deceit and fucked-up good intentions; trapped by Dean’s own hand and the shattering of faith. 

He dreams of the remorse in Cas’s eyes, of how it wasn't enough, not nearly enough, and of how he died broken and unforgiven in the end. 

Those dreams are the worst. The betrayal and loss are razor sharp and cut deeper than any demon’s blade; the pain jolts him awake, sweat-slick and gasping. 

Sam glances up over the lid of his laptop. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he lies and reaches for the bottle. 

Sam’s disapproval is sharp and silent, but Dean doesn't give a crap; the whisky is the only thing that lets him put one foot in front of the other. 

He doesn't tell Sam about the dreams. What’s the point? Cas is dead, the Leviathans are hunting them, and there’s no coming back from any of it.

***

Emmanuel dreams of impossible things.

He dreams of skimming the tops of mountains, of falling between worlds, between stars, between atoms. He dreams of the Earth spread out beneath him, pristine and empty, of drifting through Jupiter’s rings with a heart so open he can feel all of creation beating in his chest.

Daphne says it must be God speaking to him, revelations of a sort. Emmanuel doesn't tell her – doesn't tell anyone – that he’s not so sure about God these days. Or about Revelations. 

One night, he dreams of other things. He dreams of a knife in his hand, its silver blade flecked scarlet by the fire beneath his feet. He dreams of sulphur and demonic faces. He dreams of his blade at a demon’s throat, his brothers and sisters at his shoulder, and words on his lips: _The Righteous Man, where is he? Show me._

He dreams of a soul, bright amid the fire – fragile yet courageous. He dreams that he reaches out his hand... _Fear not,_ he says, _I am with you_. And he dreams of Heaven’s light and of wings like eternity beating at his back as demons spit and curse and he rises from perdition with that fragile soul gripped tight in his hand.

He doesn't tell Daphne about that dream, but its memory brings him comfort when he’s alone in the dark of the night – he feels its triumph, its joy, and its love. 

All these things he dreams, and knows they are impossible.

***

Two months after Cas died, Dean prays for the first time – and even then it’s an accident.

It’s the moment after a Leviathan catches up with them in a crappy motel in Prosperity, Indiana. He doesn't mean to pray, doesn't even say it out loud, but as he sees death approach he throws the prayer out with desperate abandon. _Cas! Help us!_

And then Don’s there, wry in his blue suit, and the room stinks of sour magic. But the fact that it’s not Cas, that it’s some douchebag witch instead, undoes Dean so completely he can only gasp for air and hope no one notices amid the confusion.

***

Two months after his rebirth – as Daphne likes to call it – Emmanuel starts hearing voices. Well, one voice in particular. He’s sitting at the table after dinner, watching the rain fall against the window and trying to count each drop as if, once upon a time, counting raindrops was something he did. Then, suddenly, he hears it: _Cas! Help us!_

He jumps to his feet with such force that he bumps the table and sends the glass of water next to his empty plate tumbling.

“What is it?” Daphne asks, wide-eyed with concern.

Emmanuel shakes his head. “You didn’t hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“Someone was calling for help.”

She’s back from the kitchen with a cloth before he thinks of moving to help. “I didn’t hear anything,” she says as she mops up the water. “Perhaps it’s—”

“It’s not God,” he snaps. God wouldn’t ask for his help, not like that. God doesn’t talk to him at all.

Daphne looks chastened, bows her head.

“I apologize,” he says with a frown. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” She puts her hand over his. “It’s going to be okay, Emmanuel.”

He nods but doesn’t believe her. His heart is racing and it’s all he can do not to run out the door because _I always come when you call_. 

The thought strikes out of nowhere, a flash of an image alongside it: a man full of righteous hurt and anger, broken inside. And then it’s gone, like a wall has slammed down between them, and Emmanuel staggers with the relief of forgetting. 

He thinks he’d better not scratch at that wall; something bad will happen if it falls.

***

It’s dark and late and they’ve just switched cars again.

Sam’s already claimed the back seat, sprawling out as best he can, but it’s a freakin’ small car so there’s not much room to sprawl. Not that Sam minds; the kid can still sleep anywhere.

Dean’s not tired, though. Well... He _is_ tired, but he doesn’t want to sleep – doesn’t want to dream. So he makes his way around to the trunk – also small – and starts rearranging their gear so that the most useful is the easiest to reach.

Meanwhile, he’s got a bottle of Jack Daniel’s for company, which should render his sleep dreamless when he can’t hold it at bay any longer. 

He ignores Cas’s coat, scrunched up in the corner of the trunk, until he can’t ignore it anymore. It smells like mildew now – he should probably have washed it, or dried it, after he fished it from the lake. He shakes it out, refolds it, and wonders for the hundredth time why the hell he’s dragging the damn thing around with him. He should leave it at Rufus’s cabin, or something. Give it to Goodwill.

 _Hey_ , he says, lifting his eyes up to the starry sky, _come get your lousy coat!_

Later, when he’s done with the job and most of the whisky, he slurs, _We’re outside the Seven-Eleven in Memorial Park, Colorado Springs, you feathery sonofabitch._

But there’s no ruffle of wings, no “Hello Dean,” no nothing. 

He’s not surprised; Cas is dead after all and there’s no changing that.

***

“What do you mean, you’re going to Colorado Springs?” Daphne says as Emmanuel stands at the front door with a small bag and a bus ticket.

“I just— it’s something I have to do.”

“But why?”

He shakes his head and says, “A feeling… I believe I’m needed there.”

“To heal someone?”

“Yes.” And he knows that this is true, although he can’t explain why. “I think there’s someone there who needs me.”

“But do you have an address?” she asks, moving closer and buttoning up his jacket as if he were a child. “How will you find them?”

He has no answers to those questions. “I’ll know,” is all he says, with more confidence than he feels because he doesn’t know much of anything anymore. “When I find him, I’m sure I’ll know.”

It takes a day to travel to Colorado Springs, and it’s dark by the time he reaches the Seven-Eleven in Memorial Park. It’s closed. There are no cars outside, no one there at all.

“You want me to wait?” the cab driver offers while Emmanuel walks the length of the empty parking lot.

He sends him away and sits down on the kerb. He doesn't sleep much anyway and it’s a beautiful, if cold, night. He doesn't mind waiting; he’s learned that he’s a patient man. But no one comes.

“I was mistaken,” he tells Daphne when he returns to the house, confused and with the call still ringing in his ears. “I— I don’t fully understand.”

Her palm is warm against his cheek, eyes full of gentle sympathy. “It’s okay,” she says. “Come on in and have something to eat. We’ll make sense of it.”

But they don’t, and the voices don’t stop.

***

Because he doesn’t give a rat’s ass anymore, it’s easy for Dean to admit to himself that it’s all about Cas.

He can acknowledge the truth without feeling like someone’s opening his heart with a rusty penknife – and, actually, he knows exactly what that feels like and it’s still less painful than remembering the moment when he knew, without doubt, that Cas had betrayed him. 

Cas, who had raised him from Hell. Cas, who was always so honest, so open, so earnest and true. Cas, who he’d loved. And, yeah, he’s chilled enough that ‘love’ is a word he uses now. Because why the hell not? He’d _loved_ that nerdy freakin’ angel, loved him like a brother, like a comrade, like a ... whatever. And he’d trusted him with his life – more importantly, he’d trusted him with _Sam’s_ life. He’d put his _faith_ in him and the bastard— The treacherous bastard had—

Damn, but he’s hungry. 

He ambles into the other room of the shithole they’re calling home these days, where Sam and Bobby are busy disemboweling whatever they shot out of the tree. “You guys getting hungry?” he says. “I'm hungry.”

He could go for another sandwich.

But Sam just gives him a _WTF?_ look so he waits, leans on the rotting mantle and thinks some more about Cas. Now he’s so chilled he can pull the whole thing apart the way Sam and Bobby are spilling that thing’s guts all over the table. For the first time since the day Cas betrayed him, Dean can examine what happened without wanting to punch something. 

Three long years they’d fought together, shoulder-to-shoulder in the same damn foxhole. They’d defied destiny together, defied Heaven and Hell and God himself – and they’d done it, all of it, because they’d believed in each other more than they’d believed in any of the other crap. And that had to mean _something_ , right? Cas had left his mark on him, on his skin and on his soul, and he’d thought that he’d—

Well, guess not. Turns out Cas was a dick just like the rest of his angelic family – power-hungry, lying fucking dicks. And Dean’s okay with that, he really is. He doesn’t even care that the world’s about to drown in black goo, or that Cas is dead and that he’ll never see– 

God, he’s hungry. “Okay, guys, seriously. It's time for dinner.”

He really needs – like _needs_ – another freakin’ sandwich. Right. Now.

***

__

__

_I know you’re dead_ , the voice says in the middle of the night, _but... if there’s any way. If there’s a chance—_

 __It breaks off and Emmanuel is sitting bolt upright in bed with a heart turned to grief. The loss, the need, the pain in that voice is too much to bear. “Where are you?” he whispers into the dark, but no answer comes back.

He glances down at where Daphne is sleeping. He doesn’t want to wake her, so he gets up. The floor feels cold underfoot, but he ignores that as he walks into the kitchen and fetches himself a glass of water. It tastes of fluoride and chlorine and all the unnatural things they put into water these days. 

An image flashes into his mind: he’s scooping water from a sparkling mountain stream with one hand, just to taste it, and someone is laughing. _What are you doing? Leave scrabbling in the dirt to the monkey-people, little brother. We have higher business here._

Like almost everything in his head, it makes no sense.

Taking his chemically treated water to the table he sits down. He’s not tired. Although he _can_ sleep, he doesn’t need to. It’s like eating; it’s just something he does because it’s expected. He’s happier just sitting quietly, thinking.

Dawn is some time away, but the sky is turning from black to inky blue and there’s a steady breeze that’s rustling the neighbor’s trees. He can see their leafy heads bobbing about against the sky. He remembers the sensation of hurtling through a storm, of being at the heart – at the very soul – of a storm. Was he a sailor, perhaps? Was that how he’d come to be washed up naked on the shore of the lake? Had his boat—

 _Please._

The voice again, full of anguish and rage, grasps Emmanuel’s heart and twists.

_The fuckers got him and we need you— I need— Please. I can’t lose anyone else. You have to help him—_

__Emmanuel’s heart is racing, fingers making fists on the table. Whatever this voice is, it’s no dream – he feels like his soul is responding to the call, straining to leave his body and fly.

_You brought them here, you bastard, you brought them here and now he’s dying. So fuck you – fuck you!_

__He sucks in a breath, shaky in the silent kitchen, and stares at hands white as bone on the table. Perhaps the voice is memory. Or perhaps it’s his subconscious. If so, he sounds pretty angry with himself. He thinks he might even hate himself.

Closing his eyes, he tries to trace the voice back, to find its source deep inside. To find answers. _You brought them here..._ Brought who? Or what?

And then he’s slammed back in his chair and –

_Leviathan! He screams the word. I can’t fight them! Run!_

_There are monsters in his soul and there’s blood on his hands. His brothers and sisters lay dead, black wings scorched into the garden of Heaven, and he has become the destroyer of worlds. Everyone he loves – everything he has fought to protect – will die by his hand and his heart is breaking and breaking and breaking and—_

__He’s lying on a cold floor staring up at the ceiling. Outside, early morning light filters through gray cloud and Daphne is crouching next to him with her hand on his shoulder. “Emmanuel, what happened?”

He blinks at her. “I don’t know,” he says, because his head is thick and full of scorched feathers. “I can’t remember.”

***

After Bobby dies, Dean dreams only of vengeance.

He dreams of putting Dick on the rack, of peeling off his skin with one of Alistair’s blades. He dreams of pulling out his heart and making the motherfucker eat it while it’s still beating. He dreams of blood and fire and death, and sometimes he’s not even asleep while he walks in those dreams. Sometimes he’s behind the wheel of the car and he can see the flames flickering around the edges of his vision. He thinks there’s only so much you can lose before you lose your humanity, and the fact that he doesn’t give a shit only proves his point.

Sam watches him with haunted eyes, wearing his own grief heavy around his shoulders. Dean wishes he could give him more, wishes he could ease his burden, but he can’t. He can barely remember to breathe anymore and the only thing that keeps him moving is the determination to see Dick fucking Roman burn.

He thinks he’ll take the bastard to hell himself. He doesn't trust Crowley to do a good enough job; he’s not sufficiently invested. And Dean was always better at it anyway, the torture and the cruelty. 

Maybe that’s what it was all for in the first place. Cas had sometimes rambled about the mystery of celestial intent, of Heaven’s plan, and maybe he was right. Maybe Dean had spent forty years in Hell just so that he’d know how to make Dick fucking Roman suffer for all eternity. He thinks he’ll take that trade; Bobby doesn't deserve anything less.

After the funeral they drive blind to a random motel, en route to the cabin, and sprawl in silence on the beds. 

“I still can’t believe—” Sam says.

“Shut up.” He cracks open a new bottle of Tennessee whisky and doesn't give a fuck. “Just shut up.”

Sam closes his eyes and Dean washes down his guilt and inadequacy with a long pull from the bottle. “I’m sorry,” he says after some time has slipped away. “I just can’t...”

“I know,” Sam says, voice weary and taut and hopeless. “It’s okay.”

“Nothing’s fucking okay.”

“Right,” he says. “I know.”

Sam falls into a fitful sleep and Dean can’t bear to watch him, the way his limbs twitch, the haunted expressions that flit across his face – there’s no rest for either of them, even in sleep. _Especially_ in sleep. They’re still hunted and they’re still hunting.

Dean drinks some more and then half the bottle has gone. He thinks, _shit,_ and takes another swallow because he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s rudderless, adrift. First Cas and now Bobby – all his certainties, all his safe places, are gone. He’s alone and he can’t… He just...

“Can’t do it,” he whispers into the night. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t.”

He pretends it’s not a prayer, but his heart knows different. He closes his eyes and allows tears to leak across his temples because there’s no one left to notice. 

“I can’t do this alone,” he says, choking on the words. “Please...”

***

After the incident in the kitchen, Emmanuel stops trying to remember. He mostly stops sleeping too, in case he dreams a memory.

Nonetheless, he senses a shadow in his heart, as if grief lurks there now. He’s not even certain it’s his own grief, but still he makes a point of turning away from the shadows. He knows they’re dangerous.

He finds quiet satisfaction in his work, in doing what little he can for those people who seek his help. But, like everything else, it makes him feel like he’s treading light on the surface of his life, leaving no imprints in the snow – and he dares not look at what lays beneath.

Sometimes he likes to walk alone. He enjoys his own company, he finds the silence restful. But just a few days after the kitchen incident he sees a dark shape on the road and when he stops to investigate he finds that it’s a bird. A blackbird. It’s been hit by a car, tiny guts spilling onto the asphalt, and its wings – its black wings – are spread out behind it on the ground.

The sight makes him weep. He sits by the side of the road and weeps his heart out over a dead bird.

Daphne looks at him askance when he brings it home and finds a shovel and buries it in the yard. She doesn't ask questions, which is fortunate because he has no answers to give. All he knows is that he can feel the shadows lengthen.

It’s that night that the voice comes again, like a knife in his heart – in his soul. 

_I can’t do this alone. Please..._

He’s in the yard when it happens, still standing beside the grave of the dead bird, watching dusk settling around the trees. Daphne is inside, the golden light from the kitchen spilling out, and he knows he should go in and reassure her he’s okay. She worries. But he can’t ignore that voice. Not tonight, not with its razor edge of desperation. Besides, _I always come when you call_ , he thinks and it feels like a familiar thought. Like a memory, like something he’s deliberately forgotten.

It feels dangerous too, but he can’t ignore it no matter how dangerous. If he does, he’ll be breaking a sacred trust and that’s something from which he’ll never recover, for which he’ll never forgive himself.

So he sits on the ground, on the damp grass, and closes his eyes. There are pathways in his mind, old but familiar, and there are warning signs on each of them: danger, keep out, turn back.

He ignores them and starts to walk. He walks through trees and into dreams.

But they’re not his dreams. Or, rather, they _are_ his dreams – his impossible dreams – but they’re not his version.

There is fire and brimstone and sulphur, and once more he holds a silver blade in his hand. He lifts it and watches it gleam bloody in the demon fire. But he has no brothers or sisters at his back this time; he is alone.

Ahead he sees a room of shadows and knows he must enter. There are noises, inhuman noises, coming from the dark, but he doesn't let that stop him as he steps forward with his blade held aloft like a torch. Its light is frail here, but it’s enough to dispel the darkness so he can see the horror within.

Something wretched is chained to the rack – inhuman and evil, bleeding – but that’s not what dismays him. It’s what stands before the rack that turns him cold; it’s the same gleaming soul he once pulled from this place, weaker now and riddled with dark fissures of despair. Like fractured glass, he thinks, this soul could shatter at any moment. 

The creature on the rack is laughing, and the soul – the Righteous Man – lifts a blade, serrated and blood-caked. “You fucker,” he hisses. “Now you’ll pay.”

“Stop,” Emmanuel says. “Wait.”

The man turns, his soul shimmering silver and black. “You’re dead,” he says. “Fuck off.”

“You’re dreaming,” Emmanuel counters and takes a step forward.

“Then get the fuck out of my dream, man.”

“I’m here to help you.”

“Yeah?” He turns, sends the knife clattering to the fiery floor. “Well you’re too fucking late. He’s already dead.”

Emmanuel glances past the brilliance of this soul to the creature on the rack. He doubts that’s what he’s talking about. “It’s you I’ve come to save,” he says.

“Again, too late.”

“No,” he says. “It’s not too late, Dean.”

The man – Dean – blinks at him and takes a step back. “You’re dead,” he repeats, “and this is a fucking dream.”

“It _is_ a dream,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

“Fuck,” Dean says, and spins away. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “ _Fuck_.”

Emmanuel doesn’t know how to answer that, so he does the one thing he can do – the one thing he remembers of this place – and he reaches out his hand. “Fear not,” he says. “I am with you.”

When Dean turns back around, his face is more human than before and utterly ravaged. “ _Are_ you?” he says, and there’s so much hope and despair in that voice that Emmanuel feels his heart break. “ _Are_ you with me?”

He grips Dean’s arm tight. “Always.”

And then they’re rising like he remembers, and the dark room and the creature fall away beneath them, and all there is for one moment, for one infinitesimal moment, is bright white light and peace.

***

It’s morning when Dean wakes, sunlight streaming in through the window onto his face. He blinks his eyes open against the glare. “Cas?”

But of course there’s no answer because it was just a dream and Cas is still dead.

And yet...

He sits up, fumbling to undo the buttons on his shirt. His arm hurts like a mother but when he looks at the handprint on his shoulder it’s as pale and faded as always. “Sonofabitch,” he breathes as he covers it with his palm. “Son of a goddamn bitch.” 

He glances at Sam, who’s still sleeping and suffering and fighting whatever battle is going down inside his skull. Nothing has changed – they’re still hunted, still hunting, still grieving and lost. 

And yet...

He remembers a moment of peace, the curve of a smile on his lips, the sensation of just breathing out. It shines in his memory like a silver blade, the only point of light in all the crappy darkness, and, dream or not, he clings to it like a drowning man. It feels like salvation.

It feels like a goddamn fucking miracle.

***

Emmanuel wakes on the sofa, a blanket over his legs and Daphne sitting in a chair nearby, reading.

When he opens his eyes she looks up. “Hey, how are you?”

He takes some time to consider the question. “Okay,” he concludes. “I think– I think I helped.”

“Helped who?” She tips her head sideways, and ventures, “That— the bird?”

The dead bird with its black wings spread out behind it like— He pushes the dangerous memory aside. “Something else,” he says, but his mind is full of slippery images that he can’t quite grasp. “A man I think. I don’t…”

“…remember?” Daphne finishes with a sigh.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says, setting her book aside. “Did you hit your head? I found you collapsed outside in the yard.”

He remembers sitting down, he remembers the voice calling to him – he remembers answering the call. “I didn’t fall,” he tells her and pushes himself upright, running a hand over the back of his head. There are no bruises. “I’m fine.”

Daphne doesn’t acknowledge his last assertion. “Perhaps we should take you to see a doctor?” she suggests instead.

“No.” He knows with a certainty he can’t explain that it’s a bad idea. “A doctor won’t know what to make of me.”

“A priest, then?”

He shakes his head and untangles his legs from the blanket, puts his feet on the floor. “Even less so.”

“Look, I know that you’re special,” Daphne says and leaves her chair to crouch before him, taking his hands in her own. “But I still worry about you, Emmanuel. I worry about what God has planned for you.”

He looks into her devout eyes and feels a frisson of irritation at the opacity of her faith. “Don’t worry,” he says. “God doesn’t have anything planned for me. God doesn’t have anything planned for anyone. We’re all just making it up as we go along.”

She blinks at him and stands, dropping his hands. “You’re wrong,” she says. “Everything we do is part of God’s plan.”

He feels guilty; he’s being cruel. “Daphne, I—”

But his apology is cut short by a knock at the door. A patient, perhaps? They come at all hours. He nods in silent answer to Daphne’s questioning look and she goes to open the door.

There’s a woman outside, her long hair dark and a little tangled. She wears a leather jacket and breezes into the house like a squall. 

Emmanuel stands to greet her and when she sees him she stops dead. Then a smile creeps across her face, dry as a bone and sly. “Well, well,” she says, “so it _is_ you. Hello, Clarence.”

“My name’s Emmanuel.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’d heard that.”

“Do you need my help?”

She laughs and it crackles like fire. “No,” she says. “But you might need mine before long, _Emmanuel_.” She glances out the window, like she’s listening for something in the night, and then takes a step closer to him. Too close, he thinks, but doesn’t draw back. “Only because I like you,” she murmurs into his ear, “keep your head down. Something wicked this way comes, and you can’t hide forever.”

Then she turns on her heel and heads for the door, past Daphne. “And you,” she says, “should just get out the way. You have no idea what you’re dealing with, Lucy.”

“My name’s Daphne.” 

Emmanuel says, “She’s my wife.”

Another laugh, this one throaty and dirty enough to make him blush. “Yeah, whatever. See you around, Pizza Man.” 

And then she’s gone, leaving the door wide open. Daphne stares at him for a moment, and then moves to close the door. “Well...” she says and Emmanuel just nods. Well.

***

When he dreams that night, Emmanuel dreams of violence. He dreams of battle and war, of blood and victory. And he wakes up smiling.

 _I’m a soldier_ , he thinks with inexplicable certainty. _I’m a warrior._

Then he remembers the woman and her strange warning: _Something wicked this way comes._

And he’s afraid it might be him.

~END~

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading! You can find me on Tumblr as [enochian-things](http://www.enochian-things.tumblr.com/) so come and say hi! :)


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